


Untouched by human hands

by FallenFurther



Series: Whumptober 2020 [9]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Blood and Injury, Forests, Gen, Hunters & Hunting, Nature, Sketches, Walks In The Woods, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:02:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27303106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallenFurther/pseuds/FallenFurther
Summary: Virgil heads to the local woods and off the beaten track for a day to indulge in his hobbies and relax, unfortunately it doesn't end the way he planned.Written using whumptober number 28
Series: Whumptober 2020 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946191
Comments: 1
Kudos: 12
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Untouched by human hands

**Author's Note:**

> Whumptober number 28: Such wow. Many normal. Very oops.  
> Prompt: Hunting season

The breeze danced through his hair as Virgil left the trail. In his pocket his grandfather’s compass rubbed gently against his thigh as he strayed into the trees. It was everything Virgil needed to get back to the car park. Small shrubs brushed against his trousers as birdsong drifted through the leaves. Enforced downtime had never felt this good. The tension Grandma had tried to massage from his shoulders two nights ago was unfurling with every step. Reaching up, Virgil grabbed a branch, the bark rough and flaky beneath his grip as he ducked beneath it. A deep exhale and he was at one with the forest. The way the light lit up the green of the leaves, creating shadows that danced around him, set off the artist within him. His hand fell on the satchel, his sketchbook, pastels, watercolour pencils and charcoal all housed safely within it. It also contained a packed lunch, snacks and water to keep him going. 

Every step took him further into the untouched wilderness. The terrain headed down the hill, and Virgil knew where he wanted to go. The trail took people past a spectacular waterfall, with gushing water and a roar that filled every inch of you. So many artists, as well as a younger Virgil, had sat there at some point. The trail he’d left was the one that went the furthest north. Virgil had trekked beyond it, up to the ridge and back down so he could join the brook before it joined with another and became a waterfall. He wanted to see the part of the park that was untouched by human hands, where only the rangers went. It was dangerous to leave the trails, but he was prepared, and had International Rescue of speed dial. He had a tracker on his belt and his comm on his wrist to be safe. Though all notifications were off. Only priority one calls could reach him today. 

The trees started to thin as he reached the brook, its babbling called out to Virgil long before he could see it. A smile graced Virgil's face as his eyes took it all in. Its murmuring was soothing, the cool clear liquid inviting as the sunlight reflected off the surface. Light spray sparkled like diamonds where the water hit the odd protruding rock. There was a light foam where the water swirled, chortling as it passed. Virgil settled himself down against a tree, the sun warm on his face, and retrieved his sketchbook. The complete lack of human noise was a comfort. So often he was faced with screams of agony, fear and grief, to hear only the soft sounds of the forest was a blessing. His heart opened and healed with each brush of the charcoal pencil. The rocks and trees came to life on his page. When a little Blue Grosbeak joined him for lunch, he managed to sketch it by feeding it some of the sunflower seeds Grandma always slipped into his bag. He was able to immortalise its colourful plumage before it flew away. 

Virgil was about to close his sketchpad and move on when the great majestic beast came to the brook to drink. Virgil froze, his eyes meeting the deep brown orbs of the stag. The stag held his gaze, before bending down to drink, an eye still on Virgil. With the utmost care, Virgil turned the page in the pad, before slowly reaching for the pencil. Every detail of the magnificent creature was something he wanted to capture, but he feared now much time he had. Virgil focused on the face and the magnificent antlers, his hand making swift movements that were hidden to the stag by the knees he was using to prop up the pad. Awestruck, Virgil could barely dare to breathe, for fear of spooking his subject. The deer took a step closer, dipping his nose deeper into the brook. Every movement it made was cautious. It was on high alert. It knew Virgil was a predator, a danger, a threat. Virgil’s eyes left the drawing to examine the stag again. He observed the muscles of the legs, the contours in the skin and the texture of his fur. Virgil could even discern the velvet on the antlers. 

The sudden movement of the deer startled Virgil. The stag’s head was up and its ears rotated in search of sounds. A loud crack resonated through the valley sending every bird into the air in a black cloud as the stag bounded away into the forest behind Virgil. The shock stilled Virgil, until the throb in his left shoulder demanded his attention. Still staring at where the stag was, Virgil carefully released his hold on the sketchpad and hesitantly touched his shoulder. The pain intensified as his fingers met the warm damp flannel and his left hand dropped the pencil. His head turned to inspect the shoulder. The frayed fabric on his shoulder confirmed his fears and he swallowed. Retrieving the small first aid kit and his pocket knife, Virgil carefully and quickly cut the cloth to reveal the skin of his shoulder. Slipping on a glove, he cleaned the wound with saline and inspected it. Virgil sighed with relief. It appeared to be just a flesh wound. The bullet had missed the bone but had torn through his muscle. Carefully, he opened the sterile pads and taped them over the wound before bandaging it up. He disposed of the waste in a disposable bag before packing the first aid kit back into his satchel. 

Virgil’s eyes fell on the sketch of the stag and paused. Its beauty was captivating, however its graceful lines were marred by a few splashes of red. Virgil’s heart sank. He hoped the fact that the stag had darted off meant it wasn’t hurt. It was hunting season but it was illegal to do so in this national park. Anger started to seep into Virgil. This was meant to be a safe place, it had always been a safe place. The adrenaline from the shock was starting to wear off and it was time for Virgil to get back to the car park and check in with his family. His grandma would no doubt want to check out the wound and stitch it up. He could already picture Scott’s frown. Virgil wouldn’t blame him though, it had been close. A few inches the wrong way and Virgil would not be going home. As much as it was a beautiful place to die, Virgil was not ready yet. There was so much left for him to do with his life, so many brothers to keep an eye on and countless people to save. He was thankful that he could walk away. Collecting up his pencil, Virgil got to his feet and slipped the compass from his pocket. It was time to be guided home.


End file.
